a moment frozen in time
by nesshaw
Summary: "No one should be alone, Malfoy. We shouldn't be a victim of hate because of something we didn't even commit."


**_prompts_: **Beater 1, you are to use the SAME pairing that the captain has chosen, but are to turn that pairing into a friendship (**Scorpius&Rose**), **underdog-imagine dragons, what on earth are you doing?, **and** brush.**

**__****competition:** _The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, round one._

**_warning: _**there are mentions of cousincest and slash, along with cursing, underage drinking and sex, though none of them is that obvious.

**_thanks:_**to sai (sidsaid) for the beta help, like omg. Also, thanks to jane (janeisnotonfire) and bri (gote) for the mental support. i love you xoxo

_**disclaimer** _**_: _**i don't own harry potter.

* * *

father, father, father  
who am i to blame?  
father, father, father  
are we just the same?  
underdog ; imagine dragons

* * *

the only way to have a friend is to be one – ralph waldo emerson

* * *

There are many things that he would and wouldn't have done if it were up to him. Some days, he likes to reflect on his life with firewhiskey and cigarette as his companion, alone, in the corner of the dungeons hall. More often, he finds himself in the least comfortable bed, in a stranger's room, with a girl whose face and name he doesn't recognise, not that he really cares as he usually leaves before he questions what he was thinking the night before.

Looking at his reflection is like looking at history. There are too many similarities and too little truth, and amidst the broken breaths, bruised memories, and the dying faith, he strolls the castle with power as his armour. It's easy to pretend when you don't really have to try. Sometimes, if he pretends enough, he doesn't have to hear the voices in his head.

There is a girl and a boy in his year, a boy a year above him, and a girl two years below him who hide their demons as casually as he lets his out. It's easy to hate them, he thinks, and it's not because they were the heroes and he was the villain in history. They are a constant reminder of what he could have become if he had done what he should have done, and if and if and _if_ he stopped filling his head with what ifs, he wouldn't have to deal with the fact that he simply wants them to cease existing.

* * *

One night, someone does something out of ordinary.

There's a beginning, there's always a beginning, like there's always an end in the beginning and vice versa. A beginning means a new start, a new chance, but there's none for him, so he thinks time has frozen since he stepped into this school for the first time.

He hears light footsteps, at first that he thinks he must have imagined it, but they become so painfully loud that it is as if someone was trying to make the law of physics starts working again and he wonders if the ground would collapse and swallow him up in the process.

There's a gasp, and then, "_What on earth are you doing?_"

A girl. The girl in his year. The one who hides a demon inside her. He has his eyes closed from the moment he had heard the footsteps, but he knows her voice just like he knows everyone's voice in his year and he _thinks, hopes, prays_ if he doesn't open his eyes, she will assume he is sleeping and leave him be, except the smell of the burned out cigarette is still strong and he _is_ gripping a bottle of firewhiskey.

"You don't even belong here," she continues, proving how gold and red she is as he hears her taking a seat in front of him. "I mean, you are not a Slytherin. What are you doing in the slimy and nasty Dungeons?" her voice turns from incredulous into a flustered tone, realising that the statement could be offensive even though it is the truth.

He opens his eyes then, expecting to see judgment in her eyes. And there it is, clouded with curiosity and surprise, in her deep brown eyes.

"I could ask you the same question," he says, his voice dripping with sharpness more so than he intends it to.

An annoyed look flashes on her face. "It's none—" at his raised eyebrow, she stops herself, seemingly more aggravated. "I want to paint the dungeons hall onto a canvas." She takes out a paint brush from her small bag to prove her point.

He bites back the sarcasm and stupid remarks regarding the time and the activity, knowing full well that he doesn't know anything about her. "Too bad I'm here."

"Well, not really, I could paint the hall _and_ you." She grins slyly and grabs the bottle from his hand and drinks the liquid like it's water.

"_The daughter of war heroes painted the son of a Death Eater. Could she possibly have turned to the dark side?" _he recites dryly as if he was reading the headline news.

Suddenly, she's alight with anger. The headline topic is as sensitive to him as it is to her. The amount of times the greedy paparazzi snapped convenient pictures that go along with their gossips about Weasley and Potter family, but the news doesn't_ break_ any of them, and he tries, tries, and _tries _ to accept that's how this world works_,_ but it's _hard. _He's choking on the noose around his neck—Fucking hell, Malfoy_,__get a grip__**. **_

"That would be a stupid headline, more stupid than those about you before, and they were _stupid_ and—"

"They don't lie about me, though," he cuts her off. "About night life and alcohol and cigarettes and _especially,_ about the encounters with the older women. I know you know they don't lie about your cousins either."

"You know nothing about Victoire and Al!"

"You know nothing about me either. _Look, _why are we even talking?" He tries to massage his headache away, overwhelmed by the sudden conversation with a stranger who tries to fix the broken law. Out of all people, he really doesn't expect naivety to exist in her veins.

"You are alone." She says quietly and doesn't seem fazed when he narrows his eyes at her. "No one should be alone, Malfoy. We shouldn't be a victim of hate because of something we didn't even commit."

"And you only realized that after five years?" He couldn't keep out the bitterness in his voice. He's losing all control. It's too much. He doesn't need all of this. She needs to _mind _her own business.

"I know, I'm _sorry_. I should have tried harder."

He looks at her with a cold expression that he manages to muster up after he diminishes the anger, sadness, bitterness, and _longing _feelings that are fighting to resurface. "Fuck off. I don't know what you're trying to accomplish here, Weasley, but you aren't getting anything out of me."

She opens her mouth, but he cuts her off. "_Fuck off._"

She reddens and tightens her fists, obviously mad, but she stands up and leaves him.

He takes a large gulp of firewhiskey and lights up his cigarette, swearing the alcohol got into his head when he imagines himself hearing, _"I just want to be your friend"_ just before her footsteps disappear into the night.

* * *

He wakes up when he feels a droplet of water touch his forehead. He tries to brush it away, but it isn't there. His forehead is dry.

He blinks.

His head is a prison of untamable memories that keep banging and shouting and begging to be let out and his chest stores a thousand of frustrated screams. He tells himself to wake up. He orders himself to get dressed. He counts the steps to the Great Hall, classes, the green house, everywhere. He doesn't stop at the war memorials that are carved on some walls and doors. He always keeps his head busy with numbers of steps and breaths. Sometimes, he lets himself be involved in something like helping someone out of being bullied. Sometimes, he finds himself in the hospital wing with a fleeting memory of why he's there.

* * *

The droplets of water keep falling and waking him up.

He finds himself unable to concentrate on a simple task as he walks to the only secret passage he knows that will lead him to Hogsmeade. His steps have been silenced so that he doesn't alarm any portrait. The idea of setting fire to the portraits is tempting, _the amounts of times they tell lies about him_, but not satisfactory enough.

He hears them before he sees them. It's a combination of moans, "we can't do this. If our family—", and "I don't care." They sound like sin, soaked in the sea of desire and lust. He can't help but peek at the classroom, just wanting to see what sort of the families' feud that is keeping them from getting lost with each other already. He's floored by the sight.

He tells himself that they have different surnames, that he shouldn't be a hypocrite. He wants to laugh out loud at the sudden change of perception. He walks to the portrait which guards the entrance instead.

"Saw him ravishing her, did you? Happens every now and then, kid, we don't tell anyone. His father is a saviour." He's astonished by its confession, his mind reeling with memories overlapping each other.

_We don't tell anyone. His father is a saviour. _

He decides to set the portrait on fire before it closes behind him. It is screaming profanities at him, but he's already on his way to the village, filled with rage and agony.

* * *

The teachers find and drag him away when he is on his third bottle. They demand answers why he set the portrait on fire, why he is out after curfew, why he continues to harm himself, why, why, and why. He uses the alcohol in his system as an excuse to be silent. He is suddenly tired, tired of looking like his father so much that every act, every breath, every single atom of him are denied the moment he steps outside his house.

He doesn't tell on them.

He's on probation.

The teacher who watches over him is apparently a new teacher, quite young to be a professor, has the hair colour that changes depending on his mood. His name is Teddy Lupin and the first thing he says to him is, "you're the stereotypical Ravenclaw, aren't you?"

There's a feeling he can't quite put a finger on it, a sense of relief as the stranger casually asks him what he knows about the subject he's going to teach which is Charms, and then they begin a four week probation filled with lengthy discussions that he finds himself enjoying.

"Live your life with ease of mind, Scorpius," Teddy Lupin says as he's about to get out of his office. "There's nothing we can do about what people think of our parents and us, and you know," he pauses, his eyes twinkling, "teenagers are supposed to be rebellious and gives no _fuck_ about what other people say."

He laughs at that. "I will keep that in mind for the next fortunate event that brings me to the headmistress's office."

He never finds out what the headline of his crime was, nor does he get a howler or letter from his parents. He wonders if his father has given up on him. He tries to no let himself drown in guilt because after all, his father has always taught him to be a better man than him. He is the one who chose to be like he was.

Was. Past tense. He's playing with the new tenses to describe himself before the probation as he realises more and more the result of 'what ifs' could really happen if he dared to go through with the condition.

* * *

The moment he is free, she finds him while he's on his way to the dungeon hall. He doesn't get to open his mouth to tell her to get lost as she hugs him and she cries that sorrowful and regretful cry.

He sighs at the unfortunate situation and puts his hand on her back awkwardly, not knowing what he has to do. What do you know of comfort if you haven't been introduced to it?

She calms down after a few minutes and looks up at him, her eyes almost as red as her hair, dark shadows looming below them. She must have not slept properly, he can imagine, girls always worry themselves to death over nothing.

She's about to say something, but he shakes his head. "I know nothing and don't have the interest to know anything." That's his way of saying that there's nothing to forgive as she didn't wrong him. That he was never angry at her in the first place.

"I told the portraits to never speak a word. No one else knows," she says that anyway.

That explains everything. He conjures the words of gratitude, but they are lost before they reach his tongue. There's no bitterness, just the feeling of warmth as he realises he can start fulfilling his 'what ifs' condition.

"Are you still keen on painting me?" He asks.

"What is this I hear?" Someone else chimes in from the entrance of Slytherin house. He hasn't even realised that they have been nearby there. "My cousin is going to paint the elusive Scorpius Malfoy naked? That is something I'm not going to miss."

Albus Potter leans against the wall, watching him with those green eyes of his, a permanent smirk planted on his face. He's nothing like the boy he saw weeks ago, despite sharing the same surname, he realises. He wonders if he knows.

"Get lost, Al." Rose says fondly, sparing glances between her cousin and him.

"No way, it _isn't _fair that Teddy got the head start." The boy is saying as he approaches them, inviting himself in. "Plus, Teddy's saying that his hand is really good at Charms. I wonder what else his hand is good at."

Rose looks scandalized. He finds himself laughing, amused by the absurdity of the situation and the boy he never talked to before. They both look at him with an equally astonished expression etched on their face.

"You know what, I have a stock of firewhiskeys under my bed and I'm going to get them." Albus announces as he disappears into the Slytherin common room.

"Al has his eyes on you now, just so you know." Rose prompts. "And he doesn't know boundaries sometimes. If he makes you uncomfortable—"

"The 'no boundaries' trait seems to run in the Potter family, doesn't it?" he muses, starting to grin until he notices the _look. _"Don't be ashamed, Rose."

"You are not _disgusted?_"

He shakes his head. "As forbidden relationships go, it isn't the worst one."

Rose seems to consider his words "Things are going to start changing. I'll look forward to it."

He comes to an understanding quickly that she is talking about his addition and insight to her life and her to his. His clock is no longer frozen as he can see a beginning after beginning with changes to make and chances to take. He finds himself nodding at her, a genuine smile spreading on his face.

* * *

They end up playing truth or dare where he almost forgets all the truths that he has collected when he sobers up. All but one.

Albus Potter tastes like alcohol, sins, and temptation, and he is in _deep _trouble.


End file.
